To Be Young

You want to know the difference between being 7 and being, well, older than 7?

When my alarm went off this morning, I muttered "rats" and flung myself out of bed.

When I woke Abby up, she yawned and stretched and turned to me with her smooth, apricot skin and clear eyes and said, "I feel great."

Learning Curve

So Abby had been having a little trouble with her school work. I had spent so much of the first semester helping Sam stay on track and trying to keep Jake out of trouble that when I finally really sat down with Abby and her homework, I was a little alarmed. It was hard to tell if she was being coy - please don't be one of those girls who thinks she needs to act dumb - or if she really was struggling with some basic math and reading.

After talking to her teacher and my sister, we started using an online program to help her. And sure enough she pulled herself up. Just the other day she was doing an online math test and she finished with a perfect score.

"Yay," she said. "My math is getting gooder!"

On to grammar ....

A Sidenote

I think the person who invented bunk beds must've stepped back from his (or her) creation, smiling and proud, until one of his friends or family members spoke up, "Sure, it's clever. But how do you get the sheets on?"

Making bunk beds is one of the most harrowing of adult experiences. I have found no trick or short cut that makes it easier. It requires a flexibility, ingenuity and coordination that I obviously lack. In the 30 minutes or so it takes me to make two bunk beds I always manage to pinch fingers and slam my head against the ceiling.  I am as out of breath as if I'd run a mile. Today I managed to bruise my hip bone and ensnare one of my shoes in the bed.

Someone (and by someone I mean me because I think it would be a cash cow) needs to invent some sort of Rube Goldberg/Looney Tunes type of machine that makes bunk beds for you. Maybe a paper-towel set up that allows you to simply rip off the top sheet.

Sure, with bunk beds you can have a nice desk space or a cubby or a twee little hideout underneath. But think twice. Or three times. Or better yet, come to my house and make the beds a few times before you buy.

Lasting Impressions

I haven't been feeling too good about myself lately. The cold weather makes me lazy - strike one. I've been having trouble with my contact lenses so I'm wearing my glasses all the time - strike two. And I recently agreed to a different hairstyle after my hairdresser politely asked if I would consider updating the one I've worn for the past 10 years. He calls it the 'full Miley.' I should've reminded him that Miley Cyrus is 25 years younger than me. Strike three.

So this is probably not the best time for me to try on 'pleather' leggings from a store for 21 year olds. But last night Abby and I were at the mall. She found a black and white dress with pink kittens (cuter than it sounds) and I found pleather leggings. Why pleather leggings? Why not? I'll tell you why not. It's one thing to see Miley Cyrus in pleather leggings. It's another thing to see Joy Behar in them.

Trying them on did nothing to improve my current deflated esteem so I put them back and helped Abby try on her kitten dress. Of course she loved it, but as she was stepping out of it, she turned and looked at her backside in the dressing room mirror. Then she turned sideways and pushed her belly in and out.

"I've got to get in shape," she said.

Ugh.

I've been fortunate most of my life to not have to worry about my weight. I have other issues, believe me. But a friend of mine who has struggled with her weight and body image said it is like holding a ball underwater. Constant, tedious.

So, for Abby's sake, no more complaining about sagging and wrinkling and things that are there that weren't there and things that aren't there that used to be.

Girls these days have enough balls in the air. They shouldn't have to worry about holding one underwater too.